On the drive over, Felix switched channels and caught the traffic from the Siesta Motel.
"He's behind the car! He's still firing!"
"Brian—Brian, answer me!"
"Ah! I'm hit, I'm hit!"
That voice—Rick?!
Felix ignored radio protocol and barked into his mic, "Rick? Is that you? Talk to me!"
"Felix, it's me. I'm shot—my stomach and my leg. Brian's not responding—he took multiple rounds. Get here, fast!"
"Hold on, Rick. Stay with me—I'm almost there!"
What the hell is happening?
He cursed, lit up the bar and siren, and buried the pedal—blew every light on the way. Cars peeled off as he screamed past.
Gunfire cracked ahead. A moment later the motel came into view: three stories, strings of lights splashing the façade, a wooden board on the second-floor railing reading "Siesta Motel." The lot was packed with cars. A figure in armor and helmet stood in the open, long gun up, raking the street.
Two cruisers sat outside the fence line. One deputy lay motionless by the front entry. Another—a deputy propped against a tree—occasionally snapped a shot back inside the lot. That had to be Rick.
The suspect saw the new unit roll up and stitched the windshield. Safety glass atomized.
Felix hunched low and drove until the cruiser blocked the tree where Rick sheltered. Closer now—easier for the gunman to walk rounds in. More glass went, rounds hammering the metal skin.
No time to mourn the brand-new ride. Felix shoved the door, bailed, and returned fire—an entire magazine in seconds.
The distance was forty, maybe fifty meters—longish—but one round punched the suspect's plate and staggered him. Armor held. He ducked behind a car.
Felix slammed in a fresh mag and finally checked Rick.
Rick managed a crooked grin. "You made good time."
Felix didn't answer. He eased him flat, ripped open the uniform, and snarled, "Why the hell aren't you wearing your vest?"
"It's hot…"
"There's AC in the car. You want to die of heat, do it on your own time."
A hole bloomed high on Rick's chest, blood frothing with each breath. His leg was worse—dark fabric gone black.
"Don't talk. You've got a sucking chest wound. Hold on—I'm grabbing the kit."
Felix threw a few rounds to keep the suspect's head down, popped the trunk, and hauled the big med bag forward. He tore open a HyFin twin-pack vented chest seal, slapped one over the entrance wound, rolled Rick, found the exit, and sealed that too.
Through-and-through. Luck of distance and angle—and no soft armor.
He cinched a windlass tourniquet high on the thigh.
Sirens closed in—more units skidding to a stop.
"Suspect's in the lot with a rifle! I need one more on bandage duty—on me!"
Rounds sparked off hoods as the gunman hosed the arriving cars. Deputies returned fire—some with AR-15s. For a heartbeat the street sounded like Afghanistan.
A partner crab-ran over, pressed down on Rick's leg while Felix packed the wound with gauze, covered it with a sterile pad, then wrapped a pressure bandage tight.
Felix patted Rick's cheek, sharp and fast. "Don't sleep on me. You don't even have a girlfriend—family line ends with you."
"I'll kill you before I die," Rick rasped, batting his hand away.
Grip was strong. Not dying yet.
Felix reached into the back seat, dragged out a carrier, and threw on a vest. "Cover me. I'm bringing Brian back."
The deputy nodded, slid to the fender, and stitched suppressive fire toward the shooter.
"Cover Felix!"
Others joined in, pinning the gunman behind the car.
Felix peeked, saw the suspect ducked hard behind cover, then broke—sprinted out, grabbed Brian by the collar, and hauled. Rounds hissed overhead, voices roared behind him, time turned syrup-thick. Five meters felt like fifty.
He made the bumper, got Brian behind the cruiser, and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He shook his head. "He's gone."
"I'm hit! Help!"
Felix spun. A deputy clawed backward on hands and heels, then sprawled. Another rushed out, yanked him by the arms, dragging him to cover.
"Damn it."
Felix sprang up, reached into the trunk again, and ripped free a ballistic shield. He grabbed a small pouch—two flashbangs inside.
He shouldered the shield and turned to a deputy. "Hey—name."
"Jim Collins."
"All right, Jim. You take one bang. On my mark, toss it at the suspect's cover. Then I push up and end this. Okay?"
"Isn't that a little suicidal?"
"Then I throw and you go end him."
"I'll throw when you're ready."
Would it kill you to argue less?
Felix raised the shield, adjusted the viewport. "Heads up—flash out in three."
He nodded at Jim. Jim yanked the pin and lobbed.
Pop!
A scream ripped from the lot.
Felix surged with the shield—caught, through the viewport, the suspect stumbling for a side door. In a blink the man slipped inside the motel.
"He's inside!"
Good. Easier to box in. Felix dashed through the front, ditched the shield, and slid behind a car for cover.
Yes, shields stop bullets—but they're big, clumsy, and draw fire. Sustained rifle? Questionable. And the guy with the shield always gets voluntold to lead. Felix preferred living.
Other deputies pushed up, some covering, others loading Rick, Brian, and the other wounded into cars for a hospital run.
"Get bodies around back—don't let him slip the net!"
"Perimeter the motel and call SEB!"
You could've led with that. If SEB was coming, Felix wouldn't have charged.
The shooter wore armor and a helmet; Felix had a 9mm. Trading with him straight up was stupid.
Crack-crack-crack!
The shooter fired from inside—harassing shots to keep cops off the doors. Pointless. By now dozens of units had the building ringed.
A few more bursts, then silence. The shooter found the main breaker and killed the lights.
Cute. SEB runs NODs. You just blinded yourself.
A supervisor's unit nosed through the tape and stopped at the entrance. Mesa stepped out. The man looked wrecked—no sleep, now this.
Didn't concern Felix—until Mesa pointed at him and lifted his phone.
Felix scratched his head, then his phone buzzed.
"Chief," Felix answered.
"Felix, can you take a team and put this gunman down before SEB gets here?"
Felix blinked. "Why not wait for SEB? That's their lane."
"He shot our people on our turf. Think of Brian. Think of Rick. If we can't handle him and have to hand it off, we look weak. We show backbone tonight."
It echoed what Frank had said before: fail locally, invite the cavalry, and you look soft.
Mesa heard the pause and filled it. "I'm told you sealed Rick and dragged Brian back. You've done enough. If you don't want this, I'll tap someone else."
"Who said I'm not going?"
Felix wouldn't risk his life for a stat line—there were plenty of street targets for that. But a dead partner and Rick bleeding out tilted the scale. And if he finished it—if he saved the station's face—reputation doubled.
"Get me two grenades and I'll blow him off the map."
"If I had grenades, I'd go myself," Mesa shot back.
A chief without grenades—figures. More likely: wouldn't dare. This wasn't war, and cops don't throw frags in a motel.
"If you want flashbangs, smoke, NODs—I can get you those," Mesa said.
Felix didn't answer immediately. He studied the dark façade. Brick. Main door left. The gunman had slipped in a side door. Inside would be the usual: a corridor with rooms both sides.
Problem: three floors, a lot of doors. No guarantee the gunman stayed put. Even with night vision, you'd clear room by room—unless he exposed himself.
Felix said, "I need night vision and a shotgun loaded hot."
"Done. Anything else?"
"That's enough."
"How many with you?"
"None. I'm going alone."
Mesa balked. "Alone?"
"A hard push gets people killed. We've got enough down already. I'll take a look. If I get the angle, one shot ends it. If not, numbers won't help—we wait for SEB."
It made sense. Patrol could handle chaos; dynamic entries against a barricaded rifleman were another game—and Mesa couldn't bleed more men.
Truth was, Felix wanted to work solo—use the skill, feel for the target, move quiet. Bring a stack and you're back to door-to-door.
Mesa nodded, and gear appeared: a TNVC Mohawk Mk3 helmet rig with a PVS-31A battery pack and PVS-31A dual tubes; a CORE Survival HEL-STAR 6 strobe on top, white/IR for IFF.
First time under tubes for Felix. The green world felt odd for a minute, then settled.
He ghosted through the cars with a shotgun shouldered, crept along the wall, and pieced windows with the tubes. One pane, spidered by stray rounds, offered a way in. He cleared shards and slid through.
Inside was wrecked—clothes, luggage, debris everywhere. He spared a heartbeat for whoever had been here when the glass blew, then flowed to the door and out.
Just as he'd pictured: a long corridor, rooms left and right. A stairwell not far.
He breathed, fixed the thought—where the man who shot Rick is—and felt the pull: upstairs.
Felix racked a few doors for show, then skirted fallen clutter and took the stairs, one careful step at a time.
Second floor. Third. No more stairs, and the pull still said "up." Roof, then. From there, he could fire down—or keep SEB's helo off the landing.
He searched the third-floor corners and found a steel retractable ladder to the roof. Noisy if he rushed.
He thumbed his phone to silent and texted Mesa: Shooter on the roof. Expect fire. Make some noise and cover me.
Seconds later, shouts and gunfire swelled outside.
The gunman answered, firing down to keep cops back.
Felix took the cue and climbed. The ladder creaked.
But the roof fire kept coming. He exhaled, climbed faster, and peeked over the lip.
There—in the distance, a figure lay prone on the reverse slope, body hidden by the roofline, sending controlled strings downward. Spare rifles and magazines lay scattered at his side.